


The Finishing Touches

by linearoundmythoughts



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Autistic Character, Canon Disabled Character, Edward Nygma doesn't know a damned thing my friends, I don't know my man it's just a damned shame you can't figure it out, I'm still not good at tagging fics, M/M, Makeup, Oswald probably dies offscreen (just kidding), Power Dynamics, Ties, and other nice moments, beginner power dynamics, liiiiiiiitle hint at almost having a panic (almost!), lots of 'what is this strange feeling' moments, nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 05:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9163609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linearoundmythoughts/pseuds/linearoundmythoughts
Summary: Ed originally invented these routines, these tasks he assigns himself, to make himself useful, to make himself important to Mr. Penguin, indispensable and in control. That was all he had intended, he thought.Set sometime back in the nice domestic phase of s3 nygmobblepot.





	

Their typical morning routine had been offset today by a stressful interruption during breakfast by some visitors for Oswald—some of the crime underworld’s most pathetic, who needed him to give them new commands. Trying to get back on track, Ed is presently busy helping the mayor get ready for the day’s events, sorting through Oswald’s ties, while both mentally planning how to fix the schedule ahead, against what he had already cancelled to buy them some time, and internally cursing the unintelligent lowlifes who dared to take up Mr. Penguin’s time.

Oswald walks around the room, gathering his belongings, likely picking out which cufflinks he will wear today. Ed has to try to guess which color they’ll be, and the stress of trying to solve such an arbitrary puzzle, making sure he makes the right choice, sends the same odd thrilling sense of _importance_ through him. He shrugs the sensation off, tracing his fingers over the ties in the drawer he has opened before him.

Oswald curses under his breath, stomps over to the other side of the room, riffles through a drawer, and comes back to sit down, carrying a black satin bag with him that he sets on the table. He unzips it and digs through it while he grabs a mirror with his other hand, without looking. Ed is trying to not get caught watching and instead pretends to be concentrated on his task of accessorizing. Surely Oswald would want to wear a blue tie today, to match the jacket Ed had recommended he wear for the photographs that would be taken later. That would look nice with Oswald’s gold and purple cufflinks, which all statistical odds suggested Oswald would favor again today. He wore them a few times a week.

Ed pulls one tie out and considers it in the light. He looks out of the corner of his eye, as discreetly as possible, to see what Oswald is doing. Ed had never been in Oswald’s room this early into his morning routine before. Typically, Oswald comes to breakfast with his hair already coiffed, still in his robe, with an outfit to dress himself preplanned. (Oswald had been furious to be woken early by incessant phone calls and had been forced to receive his guests without sculpting his hair yet, so the first thing he’d done when they left was rush upstairs to tend to styling his hair by himself.)

Currently, Oswald is staring into the small mirror, his jaw opened wide, face tipped forward, his nose close to the glass. He curses again and tosses something he’d been holding onto the tabletop, reaching once more for the bag he’d been looking through before.

Ed clears his throat pointedly and Oswald looks up to see what he wants.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Ed asks, turning one foot away and pointing it at Oswald, to face him.

“No…” Oswald crinkles his face and shakes his head, looking down and away, “it’s nothing, please ignore me. I’ll be ready momentarily.”

Ed nods, looking down as well, fingering the tie he’d picked out through his hand.

Oswald dumps most of the bag’s contents out on the table and yanks something out of the pile. Turning back to the mirror, he opens his jaw again and repeats the same motion as before. Ed feels like he recognizes the behavior somehow but can’t place what purpose there is to what Oswald is currently doing.

Still carrying the tie, Ed walks over quietly, to inspect further. Looking up, Oswald stammers and shoves some of the objects on the table away from him, moving in his chair like he wishes he could get up and leave, if only Ed wasn’t towering over him.

Ed smiles, blinking a few times, just to break eye contact with Oswald. “I’m only curious, is all,” he confesses, looking at the small mirror standing on the table.

“Oh,” Oswald says, exhaling and laughing at the same time, “of course.”

Pointing at the objects on the table, Ed hopes Oswald understands his wordless question.

“My eyes don’t naturally _pop_ as much as I’d like, sadly,” he explains, smiling, his face wrinkling in the same way that always feels _endearing_ to Ed.

‘So those are…cosmetics?” Ed ventures.

“Ah, yes,” Oswald admits. “You know, just the basics.” He smiles again.

The table is littered in square and rectangular boxes, and a variety of different black tubes and pencils. There had to be about twenty items in total.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing towards the pile. Oswald nods, despite looking confused. Reaching out and retrieving one of the plastic cylinders, Ed brings it closer to his face so he can read the label. It has black and gold cursive writing that reads _Mascara_ along one side, with a list of ingredients on the other.

“I recognize this brand,” Ed says.

“From the advertisements?” Oswald asks.

“No.” Ed never pays attention to things like that. “From forensics. Makeup is a vital tool in gathering evidence. Every brand uses different combinations of ingredients. Did you know that _glitter_ is one of the most _useful_ ways to match a victim and a perpetrator? No two brands use the same exact kind, in the same ratio.” Ed grins at the opportunity to share this interesting knowledge.

Oswald sighs, rearranging his arms in his lap. “I never know what facts I will find out are in that genius mind of yours,” he says, kindly, and Ed smiles and looks away, putting the tube of mascara back where he found it. He knocks a few of the cosmetics around with the fingers of his free hand, looking for any by the brand he wonders if Oswald owns or not.

“Ah, there it is,” he says, finding just what he was looking for. He holds the dark purple tube out to Oswald. The varnish on it is intentionally prismatic; as the light catches it, it makes the tube shine dark green in the light, and the two colors switch as they refract.

“This brand is one of the longer-lasting ones,” Ed explains, handing it to Oswald. “It contains more pigment than the others.”

Oswald takes the mascara tube from Ed and untwists it open. He leans forward to face the mirror, opens his jaw again and pushes the mascara wand into (and then up) his lashes.

Ah. So that was what he had been doing before, Ed realizes. He generally understood what mascara did to someone’s eyelashes, but he had never seen anyone put it on before. Ed had seen women apply lipstick before, sometimes blush, but that was it. Watching Oswald coat his lashes with mascara was a captivating process to observe; he was as focused with the sweeps of the brush as he was with anything he did. It reminds Ed of Oswald holding his switchblade, of Mr. Leonard in their closet, and he grins again. Ed crouches down, thighs straight, knees apart, to watch up close.

“If you need any assistance, I could—” Ed offers, and Oswald’s eyes move from the mirror to Ed’s face, his eyes hooded and jaw still open. The way Oswald looks before him, down at him, lodges itself in Ed’s brain, in a way so far from current context, he shoves the thought away before it even finishes forming. He rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, careful to lay the tie down across his thigh first.

“I’ve never applied cosmetics before, on myself or others,” he explains, looking at his intertwined hands, his fingers fidgeting in a way he can’t control, “but I could learn. If it’s something you’d like me to do. Learn. If you’d like me to learn how—”

Oswald’s face flickers through a series of expressions that Ed knows he would never have been able to decode, even with time to study them, before his features settle on a familiar smile.

“Well then, since you’re interested—why not,” he says, turning away to sort through his makeup collection. “I have my own method to this, if you want to follow along…. You’re supposed to apply mascara _last_ ; I prefer it _first_ , just an odd habit of mine—”

“You’re the expert,” Ed smiles, and Oswald gets flustered, looking back and forth between Ed and his makeup collection a few times before proceeding.

He shows Ed how to apply eyeliner, how to smudge it with a fingertip, how to blend with the different brushes, where each shade of eyeshadow should go. After he demonstrates the eyeshadow procedure on one eye, Ed picks up the brush Oswald had used and reaches to swipe it in the palette Oswald is holding. Stretching up out of his crouching position, remembering to hold the tie in its place with his free hand, he applies the eyeshadow in the corner of Oswald’s eye gently, with the precision he would use for any tool or instrument. Oswald stills under his hand, his breath warm against Ed’s wrist. _That_ was an interesting sensory experience. Ed was hyper-aware of how things felt—he always had been—and it was apparent to him by now that he has stronger reactions to certain stimuli than others seem to. Swallowing down the strange sensation coursing through his core, he purses his lips, straightens his wrist, and finishes applying each shade the way Oswald had shown him.

“There, done, and ready for the public,” Ed announces with a smile, sitting back on his heels and then finally standing up, ending the quiet moment between them. He feels like he’s just ruined something, judging by Oswald’s face, some note between them that was sustaining itself that he cut off, or changed somehow, but already it was too late to go back now. “I have your tie picked out, when you’re ready,” he says, waving it before awkwardly pressing his hands against his abdomen for a minute, unsure what to do with them. He reaches out quickly, to lift up Oswald’s face, his fingertips spread along Oswald’s jaw.

“Stunning,” he remarks, looking at how piercing Oswald’s eyes were, framed with smoky black. “It’s a fetching look; I see why you crafted it.”

Oswald’s eyes flutter as a blush creeps along his cheeks. Ed is unsure why, the same way he wonders why he can’t seem to pull his gaze from staring straight into Oswald’s eyes….

Ed walks back over to the full length mirrors, as to give Oswald some space, and to regain his composure. He suddenly wasn’t feeling capable of keeping up the usual projection of competence he wore lately, and as he smooths the blue silk tie between his fingers, he wonders why.

Inspiration strikes Ed: he looks across the choice of ties, then back at Oswald, who catches his eye for a scant moment, before looking away, shoveling his makeup back into its bag. Ed trades out the tie he held for a brighter blue one that matched Oswald’s makeup best. All thoughts about the importance of staying on schedule pushed to the back of his mind, he holds the tie up to check from afar—ah, yes, much better. Oswald needs to look his best, needs to _look_ as important of a man as he is. Striking. Refined. _Fetching_.

After Oswald finishes, he comes over to the mirrors, finally. Ed stands in place, hands behind his back, waiting for Oswald to complete doing his tie up. Grumbling while he works, Oswald leans closer to his reflection, trying to get the knot right.

“Can you please just do this for me?” Oswald turns his head to ask. “I am afraid that I am _not_ myself this morning and I—”

“Sure,” Ed answers, reaching his hands out towards Oswald. He smiles. “Whatever helps.”

Oswald laughs slightly at that, then stills himself. “Thank you, friend.”

Ed nods, and quickly undoes the mess Oswald’s gotten his tie in. Definitely out of character for him—he’s always been capable of completing his dressing routine himself, long before Ed was ever around. Lifting the tie out straight and over Oswald’s head, Ed swallows, hoping he hasn’t either done something to make Oswald’s morning more complicated, or has _failed_ to do something to uncomplicated it. Maybe they had spent too much time on the makeup. Ed hadn’t meant to be a nuisance….

“Ed?” Oswald calls out to him.

Ed shakes his head, chastising himself internally for his momentary incompetence, hopefully subtly enough that Oswald doesn’t notice. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to—I was simply thinking,” he tries to explain himself with some grace. Again, he starts the process of tying Oswald’s tie. He hasn’t ever tied another man’s necktie before, and as he drapes the fabric over the back of Oswald’s neck and reaches for the two pieces lying across his chest, his fingers begin to shake out of nervousness.

Looping the pieces together, he works swiftly to complete the task, and as he’s about to pull the knot to the base of Oswald’s neck, he loses control of his hands, the shaking too profound now to continue.

“Ed, what’s wrong?” Oswald reaches out to grasp the hand that still holds the tie. “You’re shaking….”

“I can’t…I can’t do it, I—” Ed _hates_ losing control like this, slipping back into his former, klutzy self. “I’m sorry, I—”

Oswald is about to interrupt him, but Ed buys himself a moment of silence with a raised hand that he drops to his own chest, to smooth—no, _soothe_ himself.

“Your _neck_. I can’t touch your neck,” he chokes out, looking down and away after he admits it. What a disappointment…how would Oswald ever understand….

He had so badly wanted to do this, Ed realizes. He had wanted to complete Oswald’s outfits, from the cufflinks, to the coat, to the eyeliner he was curious about, had thought Oswald must wear, to the finishing touches, to tie Oswald’s tie _for_ him, when Ed stood here everyday, hands clasped behind his back, gripping his dominant hand by the wrist, while Oswald did it himself. Some part of himself had known he wasn’t capable of facing that trigger, and that’s why he’d never tried.

He jolts as he feels arms wrap around him, feels a flushed sensation course through him, the same way he always felt when Oswald envelops him, their height difference meaningless in the embraces Oswald gives him so frequently, as of late. Oswald pats and rubs Ed’s back before stepping back, his eyes bright, still perfectly framed. Smiling up at him, Oswald pulls his tie up himself.

“What would I do without you, Ed?” Oswald makes a show of complimenting him, bowing slightly, patting and rubbing Ed’s forearm, still grinning, eyes wide and unfocused. “You did a—a perfect job, thank you, so _very_ much!” Oswald turns to look into the mirror and Ed’s eyes follow him. “Look how well you did that,” Oswald muses. “A much finer job than I would’ve!”

Ed can’t make his thoughts catch up. Too much going on at once, too much to process, too many faces, touches, tones he didn’t understand. On an impulse, he reaches out, grabs the tail of Oswald’s tie, and slides it inside his vest, thrusting his hand down, tucking it into place so it won’t bunch up. Oswald reacts to this, mouth agape, but Ed is beyond trying to analyze every nuance.

He lifts his head up to look at the two of them in the mirror, but all of his concentration is on Oswald, who looks _complete_ , his entire image one of power and magnificence. Ed had placed a hand on Oswald’s shoulder at some point, he notices. Bending to look down Oswald’s outfit with his own eyes, instead of just in the reflection, he places his other hand on Oswald’s other shoulder, and fights the impulse to even _consider_ leaning in to see what kind of cologne Oswald wears, because he knows no way to do it without getting caught.

“Lovely,” he breaths, still staring at Oswald.

Oswald sways, as if something’s wrong, and Ed realizes he is probably currently doing something _weird_ and should immediately stop.

“I’ll prepare your itinerary,” he explains, lifting his hands off Oswald to walk away. His hands feel hot and disconnected from himself. “Let me know when you’re ready to go over it,” he adds, back turned to Oswald as he walks out of the room, lost as to why he can’t catch his breath, or why his fingers still shake not out of fear, this time, but for the reason that he misses the feeling of where they rested a moment ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, a lifetime of being a makeup junkie has some unexpected pay offs. I fibbed a little; I used to own an _eyeliner_ that's tube looked green, gray and purple all at once, and now I can't remember what company made it. It would be old, now.
> 
> People who put their mascara on first astound me. I've known a few in my life, and I wonder what it's like to be that headstrong. It says so much about a person. (Me? I always do it last.) 
> 
> Happy 2017! Thanks for reading.


End file.
